


"Daddy, who do you like?”

by OnlyForward



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M, Probs will enjoy if you like fluff, random + electric, this is a long drabble but a decent one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25116571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyForward/pseuds/OnlyForward
Summary: Rosie is in the phase where she constantly asks questions. This leads to questions like "Who do you like" and develops, eventually, to "Why don’t you kiss Sherlock?"
Relationships: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock/John - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 144





	"Daddy, who do you like?”

It starts with a question from a 6 year old. 

"Daddy, who do you like?" Sherlock barely notices as Rosie says it. The question is directed at John, who is ironing on the decrepit but well-used board with floral print. Sherlock is allowed to sit smugly this week, feet resting on the coffee table even through it’s ‘unseemly’ and ‘bad influence for Rosie’. It’s his turn, next wash, however, and John will be able to gloat by reading the newspaper whilst he grumbles over the crumpled shirts.

Not that they wear shirts often, anymore. Well, Sherlock does. And he used to get them dry cleaned, but, well, it’s better this way. More domestic. But John barely wears formal wear. His new surgery make him wear scrubs when he goes in part time, so when he cycles down it’s normally just with a polo shirt or jumper.

And Sherlock takes Rosie to daycare, comes back home, does some science experiments in 221c, occasionally a small case for Lestrade, and then sometimes picks up their smallest resident from preschool.

Domestic bliss. Sherlock would never admit to calling it that, especially not to Mycroft, but it’s true. John, back at the flat, back _home_.

Granted, Sherlock had been a bit nervous at first about the prospect of a young child moving in, but she’d been taken with him from the very beginning, back when all she could do was vomit spectacularly and occasionally look cute whilst grabbing his finger. Rosie is, in short, adorable. Sherlock loves her almost as much as John. His heart is bursting, now. Maybe the capacity of it is limited due to his lack of love in the past. Or at least, he would claim that. Sherlock has been, since birth, all in on love. Cuddly toys, cars, even bloody kitchen utensils. His parents fondly mention the time he had a meltdown when they attempted to throw away a broken red spatula.

Sherlock didn’t like to admit that it was still up in his keepsake box in the loft, so that was often left out of the story. Although he suspected Mycroft, at least, knew.

All in on love. Redbeard, of course, applied to this. Even if he had thought it had been a dog, a foul substitute for a best friend he knows he would never really remember. _Victor Trevor_.

It applies, really, to all in his life. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper. God, even Mycroft, probably, although he’ll repress that till the day he dies. And then the stars, the cherries on top. Rosie and John Hamish Watson.

"I like lots of people. I like Nanna Hudson, I like Grandma and Gramps, I like Uncle Greg-"

"Gavin," Sherlock interjects mindlessly. It’s an instinct, now. Rosie will get terribly confused if he continues to alter his name in her mind.

John ignores it, folding up a shirt. "I like you, of course." “Sherlock?" Rosie asks.

It’s not directed at him, he can infer from her glance to John, before she goes back to playing with her Legos. John hesitates and Sherlock attempts not to feel wounded. "Yes, yes, I like Sherlock."

"But you don’t really like Sherlock," Rosie hits her father with a piercing look, almost a smirk. It’s an odd angle to see from a 6 year old. "Not like I like him." John starts on Sherlock’s signature purple shirt. He’s clearly perplexed with what Rosie means. Sometimes things she says doesn’t make the most sense, and even Sherlock is lost with this conversation, but trying to nod along to encourage her to continue with it. Maybe then they can understand, god help them. 

Parenthood for you.

"Well, you _like like_ Sherlock. Like Uncle My likes Uncle Geo-Greg, but won’t tell him because he’s too scared. Which is ridiculous, by the way, because Uncle Greg doesn’t the same thing to him."

Sherlock blinks. He’s taken his feet off the coffee table to stare at the girl residing in his flat. Needless to say, he’s mute. Paused himself from reacting, he needs a time out. _Did Rosie seriously just insinuate that John has a...crush on him?_

"I think it’s time to start running the bath," John says, swooping Rosie up in his arms. He’s forgotten to unplug the iron, though, so Sherlock has to get up. Bath time, he thinks. That’s normally something Sherlock doesn’t help with, but then every so often he’ll go in and they’ll paint bubble moustaches and beards on each other. 

So he rolls up his sleeves and resets his demeanour. He can handle bath time.

—

The day after that, Mycroft is kidnapped. It’s out of the blue, but he seems to have a walkie talkie on him and is using it to communicate back to them.

Obviously, Greg had gone full Boss mode in order to find the government official, almost tearing his hair out whilst being on the phone to the nearest SWAT team, or, well, the English equivalent of it.

Sherlock had simply finished his tea and continued to compose his music until they found the abandoned warehouse Mycroft was being housed in. He’d brought the companion to the walkie talkie that Mycroft had had embedded into his breast pocket which held the family crest somehow, and could hear everything he was saying.

This was, the reason, of course, that Scotland Yard hadn’t ploughed into the warehouse yet and arrested the kidnappers. Lestrade was getting antsy and pacing, leaving the man he rather obviously wanted to get together with in a kidnapping situation. But Sherlock had it quite under control. 

John was listening to the walkie talkie, Rosie standing by his side. She was well engaged in a small book Sherlock carried in his coat in case situations like this arose. John had just picked her up from school, which is why they hadn’t got Mrs Hudson to babysit. Normally that would be the routine, on cases.

"You said he’s quite calm...but Sherlock, he’s speaking jibberish. Are you sure he hasn’t gone mental?" John wiggles the antennae of the device, checking it has retained function.

Sherlock gives it a go, presses it to his ear. "Oh." He realises, mouth dropping open in shock. "He’s speaking Bastardian."

Now John stares at him, clearly thinking he should also be committed to psychiatric ward. "What’s Bastardian?" John is clearly ready to receive some kind of long insulting tirade of how idiotic he is that he wouldn’t know the concept of Bastardian, but it is something that only he and Mycroft share knowledge of, so that wouldn’t apply.

"It’s...Uh, well, it’s one of the languages I made up when I was a kid. To insult him, mainly, hence the name. But there was proper grammatical structure and everything." Sherlock feels his ears and cheeks go red as he explains this. It feels oddly childish - the door to this room in his mind palace, where all the languages from the past rest, has rusty hinges.

"Of course you made a bloody language." 7, actually, Sherlock thinks, but doesn’t admit aloud. It would just prove to John far more than he would like that Sherlock had spent most of his life being a lonely nerd.

But Sherlock can still translate what Mycroft is saying, even being significantly older than when he’d made up the language, and it’s basically some kind of repeating signal that the people holding him hostage are idiots without guns or knives or anything and quite clearly have no idea who is surrounding them outside. They might want a medic because he’s fairly sure that they’ve broken his arm but it doesn’t hurt too much so tell Gregory not to worry. And then the message repeats.

It’s nice to know that Mycroft still remembers the dialectal tone his older brother always bastardised the language with, and continues to use it even when bloody kidnapped.

When it all dies down, and Mycroft is batting off a shock blanket in favour of a cup of tea and the return of his umbrella, Sherlock turns to Rosie who is staring at Greg. Fretting around to try and get the medic to come and put Mycroft on a stretcher he will not lie down on, Greg is the epitome of a worried partner.

Clearly Rosie computes this knowledge as well because she turns to John and says, "Daddy, do you think Uncle My and Uncle Greg should get together?" John coughs, and then stares at Greg fretting over him. "Yes, I...I think it would be good for both of their sanities."

Sherlock is fairly sure that when Greg and John take a trip down to the pub, much of the complaining is about the Holmes brothers instead of the latest failures of a supported football team. Greg gets to complain about how Mycroft is so smart but so oblivious and John gets to complain about all of the experiments Sherlock does and other annoying habits of his. Frankly, he’d really rather not know what happens down at the pub and wishes to delete it from the mind palace but somehow it finds its way back in every time John emerges into 221B looking slightly guilty from his exploits. He will then nurse a painful headache, the next day, which Sherlock has decided is his penance for clearly talking shit about him with Greg.

Mycroft is still refusing to get onto the stretcher and John frowns, ready to prowl into action. "I do think he should probably lie down. He must be in a lot of pain, with that broken arm and no meds."

"He’ll be okay," Sherlock places his hand on John’s arm to stop him approaching the situation to play as doctor. "He’s broken his arm before, many times."

Sherlock doesn’t mean that to sound mysterious, but it does. Miraculously, this is the first time he’s broken an arm whilst being kidnapped. All the other times that Mycroft has damaged something is not been from dangerous government exploits or James-Bond-like spy missions, but because he continuously believed he could beat Sherlock in a skiing race, 4 years consecutively, and failed miserably each time.

—

The next day awaits yet another question for John. It seems Rosie is That Phase. This time, Sherlock is prepping dinner for them (pasta) and John is finding something for Rosie to watch on TV.

"Daddy, do you like both girls and boys or just girls? Because you liked Mummy." Sherlock almost drops a plate at the mention of Mary, freezing in his tracks.

It’s not often that John’s deceased wife actually falls into conversation topics in 221B. She’s an awkward topic, only safe when Rosie has a few questions about what kind of things she liked, like sports and hobbies, and Sherlock and John have shared meaningful glances in which they both express the sentiment to not explain that Rosie’s mother most enjoyed "killing people for money" and "lying to the people she cares about in order to travel the world under a pseudonym". Instead they told her she really liked cats and played tennis.

In ten years he might feel guilty for lying to her. But not now. Not when it’s all so fresh in his mind palace. Her shooting him, her jumping in front of a bullet for him. John grieving, like _that._

"I like girls and boys," John smiles at his daughter, who seems unfazed, and this time Sherlock does drop a plate. Luckily, it’s in the sink, and he quickly manages to cover it up by claiming he wasn’t holding it right, not because of the sudden surprise about John’s sexuality. _John’s sexuality which apparently isn’t straight._

If he hadn’t been clear before, John went on to explain to Rosie (after checking there was no plate smashing mess and Sherlock wasn’t injured) that it was “called being bisexual” and it means "I could get married to a woman, like your mum, or a man."

“Like Sherlock," Rosie pipes up very helpfully. Sherlock’s heart lurches into his throat suddenly. He tells himself _it’s nothing; it’s just because you are the closest man in her life other than her father. She doesn’t genuinely think you will get married._

Not that he’d be opposed to getting married to John. Hell, he’s pictured it in his mind palace for years, a forbidden fantasy he’ll never be able to actually have. He’s planned it down to the flowers, venue and guest list. If it was his way, there would be a murder, somehow, but that would be rather difficult to arrange.

But this...John being bi, openly admitting it in front of Sherlock, the man he lives with. This is one thing that is entirely new. John must know he’s gay. He’s never explicitly asked, but, surely, even after his failed (successful, in Sherlock’s point of view) exploits with Janine, he can tell that Sherlock is the poster boy for homosexuality, surely. Sherlock Holmes around women is the most awkward scenario ever, unless he helps them get dates or deduces them. Sherlock only gets flustered if it’s a man flirting with him, never a woman. Merely confused, sometimes. John can hardly miss that kind of thing. He must know. He must. So why hadn’t he acted on it?

Well, Sherlock reflects deep down. There’s only one real answer isn’t there? He’s not interested. John doesn’t want to have a relationship with him, even if he is bi. Sherlock is simply not his type, or...or, he’s lived with him long enough to discount Sherlock as a potential suitor, or he doesn’t want to date a man long term.

And Sherlock thinks of James Sholto, the man John was so desperate to see at his wedding. The man who showed him and Mary that _they weren’t the first_ to be loved by John Watson, to love John Watson. There was no way, simply no way, John Watson held the same love for Sholto as he had for any other commander. Not if he was bi.

So that was it then? Army men. Strong, muscly, brave, sacrificial. That would be John’s type of man, of course. Not the lean, thin detective with curly pompous hair and a tendency to play peekaboo with his daughter.

His daughter. Sherlock had never clarified what he was to Rosie. He was obviously more than an uncle, because he was a constant presence in her life. But Sherlock had made her call him by his god given name, and put a stop to any pursuit into calling him a rendition of Father or Dad. He wasn’t John, and he isn’t John’s partner, never will be, so he doesn’t get to be dad. Or Papa, or Father, or any of that. Just “Sherlock."

Secretly though, he harbours the idea of Rosie calling him some kind of paternal endearment. He holds her close when they’re alone, knowing that if John saw he would think it weird. But of course he loves her, as much as he loves John. Rosie is a Watson, and that means he loves her unequivocally.

And so he serves the pasta to the people he cares for most dearly in the world, and decides he needs to put a stop to these thoughts telling him unhelpful things. To just tell John he’s in love with him. Before he gets hurt from the undoubtable repercussions of _Just Telling_ John.

—

Sherlock is busy unpacking the dishwasher when Rosie hits with another question. He’s unpacking John’s load of the dishwasher.

They take it in shifts, normally, because John is driven mad by how he packs the bloody thing.

John Watson is army regimented, likes it all neat and tidy. The knives and forks lined up on the top tray so they are easy to grab, the spoons too. Plates of the same sizes shelved as though they have already been put away, and the same with glasses.

Sherlock, on the other hand, puts it away in chaos. Glasses on the bottom drawer, plates askew, knives and forks messed up and upside down and hell, why not. He’s a scientist, sure, but a messy one. And it’s a dishwasher, not a pastry competition. Nothing had to be that neat. But he’s putting it all away, even though it’s John’s, because he feels nice, and John has had a long day at work. And it’s easy to pick up the knives and forks in their clearly laid out way.

"Daddy," Rosie pauses to poke her father in the face. Sherlock’s mouth goes mute, means to tell her that she should leave him be because of the day he’s had, but John’s eyes open and he turns his attention to her. The wonders of parenthood.

"Hey kiddo. What’s on your mind today?" "Why don’t you kiss Sherlock like Uncle Greg and Mycroft?" Sherlock winced. Thinking of Graham and Mycroft kissing was painful at the worst of times. Luckily he had a sink nearby if he felt the desperate urge to vomit.

But yes, they had gotten together over the kidnapping incident. A confession over a cup of tea in the cafe, Mycroft recording his statement.

That was all it took - just a kidnapping. If Sherlock had known that, he would’ve kidnapped Mycroft ages ago, sped this whole thing up so there was no need to deduce them with their unrequited feelings. He suspected that was how Mycroft saw him.

"Because, kiddo, we’re just friends. Hey - do you want to give Connect 4 another go?" John was right, of course. Just friends. Always had been, always would be.

—

Later that evening, when Rosie’s in bed, they’re sat on the sofa. John swirls a beer in his right hand and Sherlock’s wine glass rests on the coffee table. The TV has nothing too interesting on, so they are mostly just chatting, but it’s...nice.

"We’re not, just friends." John states, staring ahead of him and not at Sherlock. It’s about 10:30 and Sherlock already feels a bit light headed from the second glass of wine. But he’s got total control of his functions - just feels warm. Comfortable.

"Well, we’re not lovers." Sherlock snorts.

"No, no. I mean...oh god, this is going to sound cringy. You’re my best friend, of course, but I meant more like, soulmate." Sherlock’s breath hitches at that word. Soulmate. Sure, yes, you can have a platonic soulmate. Albeit not normal, but whenever have they tried to be normal? But soulmate has romantic connotations. And John used it, so flippantly...

"We got along so well, right from the beginning. And I was a wreck when you...left, even though I hadn’t known you that long." John nods, certain. "Definitely soulmates."

He’s correct on that front. Sherlock is 100% sure that John is his soulmate, if such a fantasy exists. There’s simply no other worthy candidate. " _Platonic_ soulmates," Sherlock says, sipping his wine. Hating the word. Spitting it out.

"You...you said that...I’m not trying to make fun, here. I do think you are my soulmate."

"John, I-"

"And I’m sorry if you aren’t human enough to work out that you’re the most important person in my life-" Sherlock can’t take it anymore. Not one more word, it’s too much for his beaten little heart.

"Oh for god’s sake," he grabs John’s face, hesitates when he stares at him for a spilt second, and then kissed him with all the urgency he’s got. "I’m tired of pretending," Sherlock’s voice is shaky when he emerges from the kiss, attempting to stare at the floor. Submissive. It’s not like him at all.

"God, John. It’s okay if you want to move out but please just- just don’t leave me." 

_Mistake!_ Sherlock’s brain screams. _You’re going to lose him now! And for one kiss?_

"Move out?" John’s voice has no humour in it. "Sherlock, you must know, surely you’ve...deduced it by now, I mean. Bloody consulting detective."

"What?" Sherlock says sheepishly, feeling rather out of the loop.

"I’m in love with you, you fool." John let’s out a chuckle, although it’s tinged with a nerve Sherlock can relate to.

Sherlock’s been mentally packing John’s bags in the palace, so this causes a total brain shutdown in order to return things to where they belong. Especially when Sherlock repeats the same sentiment back to him and their faces collide for another embrace. So he mentally drops everything in John’s wing which is rapidly expanding as he gains information from the kiss, and the _I’m in love with you, you fool_ , and everything in between. 

Why doesn’t John kiss Sherlock like Uncle Greg kisses Uncle Mycroft? Well, simple answer, Rosie. They do now.


End file.
